Stop Thinking
by ohlex
Summary: It reminds him of the way that He had to be drunk during the first few months of their relationship, and how when the feelings had poured in and Patrick realised I love Him I love Him I love Him it hurt to be around him in their self-destructive agony. T for swearing. One-shot.


"_Whatever, faggot."_

The sound rings in his ears, bounces around his head, claws it's way into his every thought. After struggling his way home, he sits on his bed in some pyjamas, listening to music and trying to let the beat wash his troubles away. He knows it won't do much. In fact, prior to other times he's trying not to think of Him, the thought doesn't ebb away, not even a little, not at all. The thought of _venom in His words_ and _hate_ and H_e hates me and I hate Him job done case closed stop thinking about Him stop thinking._

The worst part is there's this side of him, this side of Patrick that's desperate to hate Him. It clutches at straws and reminds him of the sound of Patrick's voice telling him he's a faggot, the poisoned hate spewing out of His mouth. It reminds Patrick of the way He avoided his gaze in the corridors, makes a point of not looking at him, mouth set straight and eyes tight (Patrick had found it adorable, at first). It reminds him of the way that He had to be drunk during the first few months of their relationship, and how when the feelings had poured in and Patrick realised _I love Him I love Him I love Him_ it hurt to be around him in their self-destructive agony.

There's this side of Patrick that's trying desperately to hate Him, but there's another side of Patrick that can do nothing but adore Him. And then there's the whole of Patrick, who hates himself for loving Him, and despises himself for even attempting to hate Him.

–

"Hey."

Soft word spoken by a rough voice. Like a man who'd been deprived of water. Patrick stands in his pyjamas, staring at Him in something close to shock. He's rugged, He hasn't shaved in a few days, stubble starting to cluster on His chin. His eyes are red-rimmed, and a flash of white-hot fury hits Patrick. He's stoned, right? He has to be high to fucking _talk _to him.

But He doesn't smell like smoke or weed. He smells like sweat and tears and freshly cut grass.

He smells like home.

"Yes?" Patrick asks cautiously, fighting the urge to look around, almost expecting for his football buddies to jump out at any moment and finish what Charlie postponed.

"Can… Can we talk?" He asks, and all Patrick wants to do in that moment is say _no_ and shut the door, shut Him out of his life and be happy without all this heart ache.

(The thing is, Patrick doesn't know if he can be happy without Him any more.)

So of course, the boy replies, "Sure." And steps back, hands fidgeting with his pyjama trousers. He shuts the door behind him, and the first thing He says is, "I'm sorry."

But for once, it's not enough. It's not adequate. Because he knows. Patrick knows that He's sorry, he knows that He's hurting, he knows that He's terrified. It's not all about Him, it's about Patrick too. Patrick's scared. Patrick's hurting. But He doesn't seem to care. He just wants to justify Himself. Set it right. Go to Heaven, and all that.

"I know." Patrick says softly.

"So. We're good then, right?"

There is a long pause in which the black haired boy stares at Him. Just stares. Because what's He talking about?

"Well, that depends, B-" He stops himself from saying his name. His name sends butterflies to his stomach and pain to his heart. "That depends."

"On what?" He's confused, because Patrick's generally a forgiving person. Perhaps not straight away, but He needed to sort this out (and really needed to see Patrick again, but let's not mention that).

"We're not… good." Deep breaths. "We were never _good._" Which is true, they were never good, not from the very start. It was hot acts and sweaty nights beneath bedcovers and rough kisses with too much teeth, which Patrick likes, but even then it was that feeling of _wanting what you can't have. _Besides, He can't just punch him, beat him up, allow his friends to treat him like he's shit – worse than that – and not stand up for him, just smirk with the slight unease only a lover could pick out. He can't just expect them to be okay after all of that. It was different when Brad was in denial, when after Patrick turned up at a party to pick up a drunk Brad, who was slurring, _"I-I'm not g-gay, you know,_" as he sucked hickie after hickie onto Patrick's neck. Then, He was an asshole because He was hurting, and he was falling in love, and He was terrified.

But it's _different _now. He's admitted He loves him.

They have to start drawing the lines.

He's still scared, and Patrick knows this.

That doesn't give him any sort of excuse in the fucking slightest.

"No. We're not good," he clarifies, and it's been about 5 minutes since he last spoke, but that's okay, because he's been thinking, and He knows this because he's not interrupted his thought process.

Maybe that's because He cares.

Maybe that's because He knows what's coming next.

"We're… We're… Fuck." Patrick sits on the step, heavy sigh ghosting past his lips, holding his head in his hands. He just needs to think, although there's nothing to think about. There's nothing left to do. They're amazing, they're wonderful, they're _in love, _and He makes Patrick feel high in the best possible way, better than pot and alcohol and other substances. Just a kiss makes the adrenaline rush through his veins, pump his heart faster and his lips perk upwards and butterflies bashing in his stomach.

That's why he has to say it.

"I can't do this, anymore, I can't," And he's a little surprised at how broken his voice sounds tumbling out of his mouth, how his voice shatters at his name, because that's how his chest feels. Shattered. Broken. His heart is pumping erratically, at an odd, clunky rhythm that would have made him slightly scared for his health, if his mind were anywhere near it's usual, easy to read self.

He doesn't stop. "I just… This is total bullshit, I can't- I don't-" He looks up, stares at the jock with moisture swimming in his eyes, and this smile – this stupid fucking _smile_ on his face, one that's sad and out of place on his face because he's crying and smiling in that way you see in the movies. That, _I'm-sorry-but-this-is-it _way. The part just before the heartwrench comes.

"I can't," He repeats, and it's softer, so soft it feels like Patrick's taken Brad's heart out and dipped it in a vat of acid. "We can't see each other any more." He stumbled over the words, forces them out of his mouth in a rush. He nods, looks pleased with himself that he's finally done it. Like it had been plaguing him for days. Weeks. Months.

The jock doesn't know what to say. It feels like some weird, distorted dream. No. A nightmare. His mind is white. Pure white. No thoughts. Blank slate. He stares at Patrick, waits for him to say something like _April Fools! _Even though it's nowhere near April and He can tell this isn't fucking funny. It never was, never will be. Patrick just stares at his hands, face composed and as blank as His mind.

He stumbles out of the house, walking swiftly to his car, still just white. Unsure. Uncertain. Confused. Terrified, but more terrified that He's lost the one thing that He'd sacrificed everything for.

Patrick doesn't bother closing the door. He watches the car screech off to the end of the street, not noticing the tears falling down his cheeks. "Bye, Brad," He whispers softly, a weight in his chest as he thinks that maybe, just maybe, that will be the last time the bittersweet name rolls off of his tongue ever again.


End file.
